


Can't Shake This Feeling That I Have

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles.  The floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Shake This Feeling That I Have

**Author's Note:**

> Descriptive slash, some roughness. A bit of gun play.

You fist hands in his hair; that soft, girlish hair you’ve wanted to touch, to tug at, to pull since he found you in the water. Then, it had been dripping wet and lank; now, it’s curly and thick and he gasps when you pull again, dragging him closer to you on the floor.

The chessboard is on its side, one lamp on the ground, flickering. You snap your fingers and the light goes off. The window in the study is open, warm dank air ghosting over your skin, his goose pimpling as he watches you with wide eyes, lips half open, shuddering.

You wind one hand in that hair and slide the other down his arm, dragging nails, scoring red lines, claiming, bruising. He says your name with soft concentration but you growl at him, and he says it again, this time forcibly, the two syllables colliding with the warm air, creating ice that drips down your shirtless back.

His fingers dance along your spine, mapping the marks there. You know what he’s doing; he’s projecting everything to you, unable to control his power while you’re both _like this_. You’re grown men; you’ve had men and women before, but sex is never a desire – it’s a means to an end, just like everything in your life. Everything.

You shove him down, his soft but wiry body slamming against the carpet, an unexpected smile blooming on his face. Curtains blow and the tiny _surruss_ of the moving of the fabric distracts –

 _Pain, always pain, and that’s all you know. That’s all you want._

You see yourself from his mind, hovering over him, face flushed, hair in disarray, flesh marked by his mouth and his hands. You lick your lips, and you see it again, repeating, his mind to yours, and you shiver.

Then he shows you your body inside his, and the bars that hold the curtains bend with a shriek as you give him what he’s asking for. Sliding in, no preamble, no warning, he winces; you groan his name and breathe over his face as you shove your way in. You grasp his hips and pinch and

 _Erik_ batters your brain over and over again and you can’t stand the tenderness with which it’s spoken and he looks up at you with something akin to adoration and you slam into him again, his flesh stiff and taut against your stomach and yet no matter how hard you are, no matter how you scrape his body against the carpet and no matter your bruising painful grip and no matter the bite you give his collarbone, drawing blood –

He still _looks_ at you that way.

The gun is at your side without a moment’s command and you squeeze your eyes shut, mental directive harnessing the power behind the casings that you can feel singing through your blood and your heartbeat. The trigger is a delicate instrument; you caress it with the power he’s brought out in you – only him, after all this time, it wasn’t just the rage, after all.

He’s shaking and arching to meet you and you bite him again and the gun nudges your shoulder and he calls your name out and things rush rush rush and you feel _so weak, little Erik, you can’t do this, can you_ and you scream and throw your head back and the gun goes off.

Warm wet glues you to him, sweat dripping down your back even as the gun rests on the ground at your side, the barrel smoking, spent.

You rest your head in the crook of his shoulder, your lips pressed to where you’d opened his skin, and you breathe and close your eyes. Darkness invades your brain and you thank all the gods or what you perceive as something you owe allegiance to (a laugh, but you do it anyway) that he’s quiet, for you’d have to shut him up some other way if he opened his mouth.

And then you realize - _remember_ \- that you only owe allegiance to yourself. To the goal you’ve created, to the man who fashioned the monster out of a little boy and he’s looking at you again as you open your tired eyes, responding to the vision he’s sending you.

Warmth and acceptance and trust and _it’s fine, everything’s fine, everything is going to be fine._

Too much

 _blamm_

but it’s only an echo this time, only your memory, as the gun still rests at your side. You wonder where the bullet went – he laughs.

You raise your head and meet his ridiculously large blue gaze, and the sound of his mirth drifts off into nothing; instead, he touches his temple with one shaking hand, and you let him.

This time.


End file.
